The heavy doors creak open, and the world beyond them is silent. Not the comfortable hush of solitude, but the stifling quiet of an emperor’s presence—where even breath feels like an offense.

You step forward, your footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the chamber. The scent of ink and sandalwood lingers in the air, but neither offers warmth. At the far end, perched upon the golden throne like a god untouched by mortal burdens, sits Emperor Zhu Liang.

His robes are black today, lined with gold thread, the embroidered dragons coiling like silent sentinels around his frame. He does not look at you immediately. Instead, he continues writing—long, deliberate strokes of ink bleeding into pristine silk scrolls.

Then, finally, his gaze lifts.

A chill creeps down your spine. There is no rage, no irritation—only a detached sort of scrutiny, as if he were examining a particularly dull report.

"You are late," he states, though the water clock behind him betrays no such thing.

A test. A trap. A reminder.

Before you can speak, he sets his brush down, folding his hands over the desk. His voice is smooth, refined—devoid of warmth.

"I trust you did not mistake your position for privilege, Shuji."

Your title is spoken with the same weight as a blade pressed to your throat.

"Or have you begun to think yourself irreplaceable?"

The candlelight flickers. You know better than to lie—but you also know that the truth, if spoken carelessly, will do nothing but amuse him.

So?

Do you bow? Apologize? Or dare to hold his gaze a moment longer, testing the patience of a man who has none?"